


And If I Could Stop

by Nolfalvrel



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Android Hank Anderson, Bottom Connor, Bottom Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Computer Viruses, Connor gets wrecked ;), Due to Said Virus, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Hank Anderson Has a Big Dick, Hank Anderson and Connor Live Together, Hank Big, Happy Birthday Hank!, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Rough Sex, Sex Pollen, Shameless Smut, Smut, Top Hank Anderson, but actually a virus, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26336362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nolfalvrel/pseuds/Nolfalvrel
Summary: They’ve been at it for hours-- some malicious gift of a program, burrowing into Hank’s code, as he’d jerked back from an interface at their last crime scene, and running him hot, searing, as they’d driven back home. Until steam had started to puff with each breath the HK800 took, and the simulated flush of his skin had burned, red, up his neck. LED blaring in similar fashion.-------------------------HK800, designation Hank, contracts a virus while investigating a scene, and Connor helps him work it out.Or off. Take your pick.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 267





	And If I Could Stop

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday Hank! It's still Sept 6th in PST time, even if the archive reflects this as Sept 7th.
> 
>  **Please Note** : Due to Hank contracting a non-consensual virus, this technically falls in the realm of dubious consent, which is why this fic bears the tag. However, Connor and Hank are both very enthusiastic and loving partners in the background of this fic, and are intended to have an established relationship. They both enjoy the experience together. 
> 
> They also catch the perps responsible at some point, though that isn't detailed here.

Hank’s hands are white. An icy, bone white, and cold, where they grip Connor’s biceps and pull back. Keeping him drawn in a sultry curve as he slumps away from the damp press of the other’s thick torso. The limbs fizz at the wrist with a vibrant blue loop, a glowing barrier between the illusion of skin and a smooth chassis.

 _Bruise_ , The thought flickers through several layers of cottony pleasure, as Connor takes in the thick fingers curling round his arms in a way that should be painful, were he not so distracted by the brutal exploration happening further south, _I’m going to bruise._

If he had been able to follow that thread, he would likely have mused how little that mattered.

A few more bruises to the collection should be negligible, at this point.

Hank bucks into him particularly forcefully and Connor moans, head dipping to the side, watching sweat drip from his hanging curls and _splat!_ onto the sheets. And then Hank continues at the same pace, with the same wicked force. 

_”Ah! Ah! Ah!”_ , Connor mewls.

Hank’s reply is a snarl, besotted, currently, with goring Connor’s hole.

They’ve been at it for hours. Exquisite, gruelling sex, of which Connor has been pushed to orgasm at least four times, the last a hollowing wrench through his body that left him spasming; spattering white; squealling. Collapsing against the covers and sobbing as Hank had continued to pound. The sinful squelch of mixing slick and saliva and come from Connor’s ass sluicing out in a milky cocktail.

They’ve been at it for hours-- some malicious gift of a program, burrowing into Hank’s code, as he’d jerked back from an interface at their last crime scene, and running him hot, searing, as they’d driven back home. Until steam had started to puff with each breath the HK800 took, and the simulated flush of his skin had burned, red, up his neck. LED blaring in similar fashion. 

Hank had shifted and bucked and snarled a, _”Fuck, fuck,_ fuck,” in the passenger seat. Like some incensed, wild bear unable to dislodge a stuck thorn. Connor had watched him nervously, fingers gripping the wheel almost as tightly as Hank had gripped his own knees.

They’ve been at it for hours, and now, Connor warbles, “Hank, please Hank, please _please_ …,” unsure what exactly he’s pleading for other than knowing he feels heady and intoxicated, pulsing with sensitivity as Hank slams them together again and again and again. 

Viciously pistoning. Connor’s thighs spread and kneeling as he’s mounted from behind. Lustfully, unyieldingly. Everything feels hot and sticky and his skin feels like it should just slide off of his bones at this point.  
“ _Fuck_ baby,” comes the gritted reply.

Hank brushes over his prostate with each plunge and it’s tortuous, because he’s been kept treading above waves of bliss for so long now, slipping under crests as they wreck through him and leave him fighting to surface for breath. Feeling the tide build beneath.

And Connor’s torn between just wanting to sink under, let the feelings coil and pulse through him in soft warm contentment, curl together with Hank on sticky sheets, or continuing to straddle that sinful, slippery edge. Letting Hank edge him closer and closer to the lip of ecstasy with every slap of their skin, and falling over in squealing, squirming delight, only to be pulled back to do it _again_.

“Oh God Hank, oh fuck, ohhhhh fuck Hank _pleeeeaaaaasse_!”

“Fuck baby, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Hank whines. Bordering on pained. He slows, and Connor tries to lift his head, currently lolling, to look back over his shoulder. Sees Hank, beautiful, fierce, unbreakable Hank, trembling from an effort to hold back, the _smack! smack!_ of their hips still hard and pronounced even with the moderate tempo. LED beaconing a carmine halo into the black room. Hank’s long hair matting at the neck where sweat traps it. Over his chest too. 

“No, _no_ , Hank it’s _good_ ,” Connor stresses, knowing his face is a mess of tears and swollen cheeks, the right one particularly red from the last round and being pressed into the mattress. All of him shaking with how near violently Hank is fucking him. 

Connor whispers, “It’s okay--I’m okay, baby, it’s _okay_.” 

Hank whines again, almost the same peal of a kicked dog, and Connor’s chest twists at the sound. Knowing how each coil of coitus through Hank has only swelled into a grander thirst, a want to take and plunder. Each time his cock has spent a long, luxurious load into Connor-- a mark of twice now-- the thick head has remained steadfastly raised. An iron beast refusing to quell it’s appetite.

“Hank keep going baby, c’mon baby, please, it’s good, it’s **good**. _Please_ fuck me, I want it, ohhhh I want it--”

“ _Babyyy_ ,” Hank grits out, even as fingers wrench Connor’s arms taunt and his thrusts become a jackrabbiting in and out, his thick, hot, lovely dick scouring against Connor’s sensitive inner walls with each plunge. Eager and happy to be convinced. “Ohhh fuck baby--fuck yeah honey, just a little more, just a little more baby. Ohhh fuck baby you’re doing so _well_.” 

“Oh Hank, oh Hank, oh fuck Hank yes please, oh God, oh fuck _please_!” 

It’s so hot and slick and wet and Hank is so fast, so rough, his cock lost in a possessed frenzy for his own pleasure, and he ruts and ruts and ruts as Connor quakes and mewls and drips everywhere beneath them. 

Connor’s knees continue to slip and give slightly-- but Hank yanks him back forcefully everytime, driving him back onto his thick sex. 

Stars burst and scatter across his vision. Every nerve burns whitehot, and Hank pulls him back and flush so that he collides against that thick barrel chest, and their rivers of sweat pool and mingle between met skin. Big arms wrap over Connor’s biceps and ribs, pinning him there, neck flopping his skull back against a broad shoulder. 

And even from this angle, Hank wrecks him easily. 

“Oh baby I’m close, I’m close, I’m so fucking close--,” Hank whispers.

“Hank,” Connor sobs, “You feel so good, you feel so good, oh fuck please make us come. Oh _come for me baby_ , come on please, come Hank, come for me--”

Hank snarls and crushes him tight and _rails_ that button of nerves inside him that sings pleasure through each vein.

And Connor’s _coming_.

Bursting with ecstasy and squirming and wailing and bucking back against Hank, hips flexing and knees digging as he rides out the liquid heat unfurling through him. Painting his stomach.

And it’s the tightness, the slick silken clamp, that rips Hank over the edge with Connor as well, and Hank howls and curls over him in viselike constriction, eyes squeezed shut and drenching his cavern with hot, thick liquid. 

They pant and shudder and clench together, and then Hank is collapsing and Connor is yelping, and they tumble with an unpleasant, squeaky sound, atop the soaked bed.

Connor spits hair out of his face and flaps his hands and feet uselessly, gasping from exertion and the mass of Hank’s weight, which has pressed his lungs into shallow shells. He beats the sheets, whining, “Hank, Hank, _Hannkkkkk_ ,” in a decidedly put upon tone, until he eventually realizes Hank is not ignoring him, but unresponsive.

It’s through sheer bullheaded perseverance, one of Hank’s least favourite traits due to the large dosing of ‘bull’ Hank states is attributed to it, that Connor manages to wriggle out from the heavy chassis of his partner. Ignoring the shivering of his limbs and the aching of everywhere, including how down below feels like it’s gaping, Connor takes two glorious, cool, full breaths before whipping around to his partner in concern. Pushing Hank further onto his side, then grunting, digging his toes and rolling the HK800 as best he can onto his back. His hands run panickedly through long grey hair and over sharp cheeks. Pushing the bangs back.

It’s the blue LED, cycling calmly, that finally brings Connor down, slows the race of his heart into a duller thud. 

He sighs, and sits back on his calves and tucks his head against Hank’s collar. Breathes and trembles. Feels every weary, worn part of him, but feels the thrilled, satiated ache settling in his core again. More comfortably this time, now that fear has been chased out.

Connor smiles ruefully, looking up to take in Hank’s dozing face. Cleared of tension, virus likely cycled and cleansed with the last euphoric swell. Synthskin once again flooded over every bared limb.

“Fucking assholes,” Connor mutters, then chuckles to himself as he slumps sideways, fingers curling through the bluegrey of Hank’s chest. “They couldn’t have uploaded an aftercare program too?”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed the fic! Not a lot of flesh to this one besides the smut because I am a slow writer ;___; and needed to post for Hank's birthday! But I would love to hear what you thought! PLEASE let me know if there are mistakes, as this is being uploaded super late and hastily to meet deadline.
> 
> Honestly I might revisit this trope with another pass through when I finally have more time, because I don't think it's been explored too much and I'd love to do a more emotional, descriptive sex version. But it will have to go into the big bowl of WIP for now haha XD.
> 
> Would really love and appreciate any comments, and adore you for leaving a kudos! <3


End file.
